With Time
by Hisa-Ai
Summary: After losing Freya, Arthur, and then everyone else he ever cared about, Merlin wants nothing more than to live a life of solitude until Arthur returns. His plans never did go as expected, though. And the pain he feels once more just might be worth it when Arthur returns and reminds him why he waited so long in the first place. "Merlin, you clotpole."


**Disclaimer: **I don't own Merlin or anything else mentioned here that you might think I own even though I'm telling you now that I don't own it. So there.

* * *

_With Time_

* * *

**Fic:**

Merlin fell in love only once more in his lifetime.

It was odd—so very odd indeed—and unexpected after the young warlock had promised himself not to love another. No, after the pain of losing two loves in so many years, he was finished with the whole business. He would live like a hermit until Arthur returned and that was all there was to it.

And he stuck to his promise for so many years—years in which Camelot fell and Gwen and Gaius and Leon and Percival and his mother and everyone else he had ever known all passed on and he had to give them all proper send-offs as well. His heart grew hard with the losses, tears turning into bitterness and a distance towards people that he hoped never quite wore off.

He spent a good many decades with as little contact with others as possible, always sticking close to the lake yet shying out of view of those who might recognize him and the fact that he grew no older.

Magic was still practiced, but no more accepted than it had been during Arthur's rule, and the very way people wielded it was changing in a way Merlin didn't quite care for. They used it differently, they used different tongues and harnessed it through smaller sticks and rituals he wasn't quite used to. No one's eyes glowed golden with their magic anymore. And it took away from the raw power and energy of it, he noted, observing those who used the magic so much different from his own at a distance.

The Old Religion had been but a flicker in Arthur's day—_barely_, but at least it was that much—but as time passed, it was blown out completely, with none but him and legends left to tell of its existence.

The change in time and magic saddened him when he thought about it. But at the end of the day, he could do nothing more than shrug it off, reminding himself that as long as he was still alive, it was still around. And he, as it turned out, would be around for far too long, anyway.

He had been hoping that someday he would join Arthur, that they would wait out his return together in whatever sort of afterlife there was. But many years passed and he barely aged a day.

Just before Kilgharrah's time ran out, they met just once more, and he informed Merlin, with great sympathy, that, being of the old religion, he was destined to the life-span of the old religion as well. And being _Emrys_ only added to his life.

He, in so many words, would never die. Not as long as man inhabited the earth.

Cursed to walk the earth and await his king's return, he was there to help in any way he could when the need did arise, even if no one would ever recognize what was being done.

Of course, driven more bitter with the news, he stayed out of the wars and the conflicts and let the those involved hash it out themselves. He could not bear to watch any more unnecessary bloodshed, could not be reminded of what he had lost in the same way.

He used the years, instead, to study all his magic books many times over and gain new ones, honing his skills and becoming the great sorcerer his destiny said he was to be.

And he visited Freya and Avalon frequently, watching for signs of Arthur's return—because, surely, when he _did_ come back, Avalon was where he would be—and enjoying Freya's company. He eventually found a spell that allowed him to view her, that allowed them to communicate with one another, making the time spent at Avalon just a tad more enjoyable than it might have otherwise been.

She grew weaker with the years, however, the old religion and its magic leaving the earth and, consequently, _her_ ever so slowly. Merlin discovered another spell to keep her well, though, to give her enough energy to sustain herself and Avalon. He had to perform it every few years—he could have prevented that, could have performed a stronger one that would have held for all of eternity, or at least something close to it, if he hadn't wanted an excuse to keep him coming back other than Arthur—so it kept him coming back. It was a constant for him in a world that was changing against him and everything he had ever known.

One day, after saying his goodbyes to Freya and Arthur—whether the prat could actually hear him or not, he could never be sure, but it kept him half-way sane to pretend that he could hear every word Merlin said while at the lake—he decided to visit the city that had been built on the remains of Camelot so long ago; it wasn't that long of a journey, after all.

He had never bothered to learn the city's name, but it was just the same as Camelot had once been, only… Younger yet somehow older all at once. It would never _be_ Camelot, it would never be _home_, but to some it was a great city indeed. And he respected that and resisted the urge to tell everyone nearby that the city it was built upon had been a thousand times greater than it would ever be. Its people had been better, its king kinder, its knights nobler.

He kept his mouth shut about it all, however, and pretended to be just another young lad come to seek his future and fortune. Easier to fit in that way, he found.

He felt magic running through the city as he passed carts and stands and stores and homes, and felt closer to anything than he had in a long time, despite still feeling so disconnected and out of place in a city not meant for him. There had been great magic practiced in Camelot, after all, and that was not the sort of thing that so easily left the earth, even if it _was_ of a different kind after so much time.

An herb stand he passed happened to catch his eye and he decided to stop and buy something, some rare herb that hadn't grown in the area for decades now. And the girl that owned it and helped him—Sophia, she said her name was—was beautiful in a way he hadn't thought anyone was beautiful in a long time now.

With red hair that looked silkier than any he'd ever seen before and green eyes that he couldn't help but stare at, she seemed to him the sort of beautiful that Gwaine would have flirted with, that Leon would have smiled at, that Arthur would have winked at, that Percival would have chuckled nervously at, that Elyan would have talked with, that Lancelot would have flattered.

She was the sort of beautiful that Merlin didn't really know how to respond to until three months later on his 12th visit to the stand and Sophia, and she asked why a handsome young man like himself spent so much time and money on herbs that only old men and women took an interest in. And when he told her that he was an old man in his heart then and she laughed, he thought that he might have fallen in love again, were he a stupid man.

He rented a house nearby and spent far too much time around her, talking to her about her life and telling half-truths about his own—how would she react to him and all that he had done and been through, after all?—until he went to visit Freya one day and she told him that he had the sort of glow about him that she hadn't seen come off of him since Arthur's death. She told him his heart seemed to be melting and waking up, and asked gently if he had found this warmth with the heart of another.

He didn't know what to tell her.

Of course, he tried to deny it—he had promised himself not to make that mistake again, after all—but when Sophia showed up at his door the next morning with breakfast and an arm of the herbs he had mentioned looking for last they saw each other, he knew it might have been too late to stop his heart from falling for her.

Months passed with Sophia at his side and he slowly revealed things to her, things like his magic, the loss of all he held dear, and how he hadn't wanted to allow himself to fall in love ever again until he met _her_, as trite as she might have thought it.

But he never told her about his destiny, about his curse, about how some day she would be dead and he would be all alone once more. He had a clean slate with her, and everything she knew about him was from him and his lips alone, and he liked that very much.

He decided, one day much too late to make a difference, that maybe falling in love again wasn't such a bad thing after all. Why _shouldn't_ he be happy? Had he not earned just a bit of light, of happiness in his life after everything he had been through?

It was foolish to think such a thing, however, as he would find out one morning when Sophia came to him with a book in her hands—she wasn't one for reading, he had found in dismay, but she _did_ listen when he went on about books he enjoyed and what he learned from them, and for that he was grateful—and passed it to him slowly.

It was titled "Le Morte d'Arthur," and his heart skipped a beat as he thumbed through it, tales of him, Arthur, the knights, Gwen, Morgana, Morgause, Uther, Mordred, and everyone else he had ever known in Camelot passing before his eyes along with pictures—_accurate_ pictures and depictions—of him and them. They even had the prophesies down, their destinies, how he, Merlin, was meant to walk the earth in greatness and loneliness until his king returned for him once more.

Falling on the tale of Arthur's death, a picture of Merlin weeping over his lifeless body, Merlin's eyes slipped shut and he felt tears fall down his face onto the page. He closed it and opened his eyes once more, nodding in acceptance at the betrayed and pained look on Sophia's face as she cried tears of her own.

She knew. She knew everything about him, about his past, his destiny—she knew _everything_ and there was no way to take it back now.

He didn't know who had written the book—the name on the cover meant nothing to him, though it was one of someone claiming to be a knight—or how they knew everything that had happened a lifetime ago or what they all looked like or how they knew _anything_ at all that was written in the book he felt so protective of all of a sudden. He didn't know how they knew these things, but they knew, and now the world knew. Now _Sophia_ knew.

He had tried apologizing, had tried explaining why he'd kept it a secret, but she just shook her head, babbling about love and trust and how she didn't think he could ever love another as much as he had loved Arthur. She kissed him goodbye then—and _oh_, how _sweet_ her kisses were!—and told him he could keep the book before leaving him a weeping mess at his table, the book clutched tightly in his hands.

More months passed and he stayed in his house and the city against everything in him telling him not to. Sophia left the city just after leaving him with the book to go visit her family, making the months that much easier to endure.

She _did_ return one day, though, just as surprised as Merlin was when he went around to her stand out of habit and she introduced him to her husband—a marriage arranged by her parents. And wasn't that _always just the case_, he thought to himself, buying his usual herbs and leaving her with a fake smile so she would not see the tears still staining his heart or the pain still stabbing at his soul.

He tried to be bitter once more, tried to convince himself that it had been a mistake to love again, to allow himself to be _that close_ to another human being. He tried to will his heart to harden against everything and everyone again until Arthur could return...

But he just didn't have it in him.

He felt sadness, stupidity, remorse, but he could not find it in him to be bitter. Not again.

Freya had laughed softly, lovingly, when he came to her with his problem, informing him that his heart would not be consumed by bitterness once more when it had been reminded what a _feeling_ it was to be alive and in love. It would not allow him to close it off to such a feeling again. It was hurting—it would _always_ hurt, in a way, simply because of his destiny—but it knew, even if _he_ didn't, that the pain would go away with time.

And _time_ was all he seemed to have in front of him anymore.

Returning to the herb stand a few times a month, he found the pain slowly subsiding, found himself able to watch Sophia steal a kiss from her husband without growing jealous or angry.

And then one day, perhaps a year after she had returned into his life, he found himself smiling widely at her when he bid her farewell, found his heart full of gratitude towards her, found he had stopped hurting so much.

On his last trip to her stand a week after his revelation, he decided it was time to say his goodbyes, time to leave the city that would never quite be Camelot and spend time elsewhere where his face might not seem so familiar. Perhaps it was time to use another aging spell so he would not be recognized as _Merlin_ or Emrys by those who had read _Le Morte d'Arthur,_ as many people around not-Camelot seemed to have done.

But he wasn't quite sure yet.

He had time, great magic, and_ so many_ possibilities that he hadn't seen clearly before meeting Sophia. He would figure out, with time, what it was he had to do. He had faith in himself.

So after exchanging some money for his usual herbs—herbs that he had never really _needed_ in the first place, he admitted with humor when her husband was busy helping another customer—he told her that _this was it_, that he was leaving the following morning and he didn't really know if he would ever come back.

She nodded, needing no explanation as she tapped a copy of the Arthur book that was near her. She wished him luck on his journey and with his future and whatever it might bring him, and said she hoped he needn't wait too long for what he wanted, for what he _needed_, most in his life.

He smiled sadly at her, for he knew, somewhere within him, just how long of a wait it was truly going to be.

And then he thanked her. He thanked her for loving him, for giving him reason to see hope again, for melting the ice around his heart born of bitterness and grief, for reminding him that loving someone was _always_ worth it, even if you did wind up hurt in the end. He thanked her for the book, for the herbs, for providing him with more company than he'd had or deserved in a long while. He thanked her for simply _being—_all with just two words. The magic that he knew coursed through her and the city around her helped him convey it, even if she wasn't quite aware of it.

He told her then, as an act of his gratitude, that the child she was pregnant with—that she had only just found out about—would grow up to be a great man indeed, and that if she was going to name him after anyone in his tales—Arthur's tales, really, but more so Merlin's, once you got to the heart of things—it should be Gwaine or Lancelot, as they would appreciate the beauty of her and women everywhere and be brave and noble men worthy of their namesake.

And then he was gone the next morning, leaving no trace of his ever being in that little house he rented other than the stray bit of magic that flowed through it, that would protect and entertain and enchant whoever happened to occupy it after him for the rest of their life.

The years continued to pass then, and time changed more, and he saw many losses, many people fighting for what they thought to be right, and the tales of the Once and Future King Arthur of Camelot spread through the land, through the world, and they were all held in high opinions and standards—even by those convinced they had never actually existed.

He thought of Arthur and Freya and Sophia often enough to remind himself why he kept going, why he could no longer stand by the sidelines and let humanity prosper or perish without his help either way. Arthur would have helped as many as he could, no matter what the odds or what they were fighting for, and he would have dragged Merlin along with him to help or die trying.

So that's what he did.

He fought and he helped and he hoped and he learned and it felt… _great_. Lonely, but great.

Finally, one day, after waiting for what felt like over a thousand years, he returned to Avalon to visit Freya once more, an aging spell in place until he was sure he was alone. The air felt different, he noted, full of more magic than it had been in close to five hundred years now, full of something that felt like the old religion.

Freya smiled softly at him when he asked about it and extended Excalibur to him without words. His eyes widened, heart skipped a beat as he watched the water in silence for a few minutes...

But the water didn't even ripple.

Almost disappointed, he was about to ask Freya what was going on when he heard the sweetest sound he'd heard in a long time come from beside him.

"_Mer_lin, you clotpole." And then Arthur's soaking arms were around him, pulling him closer and making his heart swell, reminding him, truly, why it was a _good thing_ he had met Sophia when he did and why he had fallen in love again. _This._ This feeling of being whole and not alone anymore and of his heart bursting with the feel of Arthur's arms around him and the love and hope he was feeling. This is why he never should have shut himself off to love in the first place.

"You stupid dollophead," Merlin mumbled against his tears, pressing soft kisses to his skin where he would have him. Arthur chuckled and pulled back to look him over with tears streaming down his own face.

"So tell me about _Sophia._" He teased then. And Merlin just laughed and pulled him back in, giddy with the prospect of filling Arthur in on everything that had happened since his death.

**Fin.**


End file.
